


I Can Be A Good Machine (But I’m Only Human)

by breadknee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Because it's Hank, Case Fic, Connor Deserves Happiness, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Deviant Upgraded Connor | RK900, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hank Anderson Swears, Hank is a Good Dad, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed, POV Multiple, Physical Abuse, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Suicidal Thoughts, idk what else to tag, no beta we die like men, the author is projecting her love for this dysfunctional family on poor readers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-19 18:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17606432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breadknee/pseuds/breadknee
Summary: Following the events of Markus's peaceful revolution, Connor works as an official detective for the Detroit Police Department.An injury leaves Hank at the precinct while Connor pursues a potentially dangerous android charged with multiple accounts of murdering humans. He struggles to solve the case as more and more issues pile on top of it.





	1. I can hold my breath

**Author's Note:**

> “I can turn it on  
> Be a good machine  
> I can hold the weight of worlds  
> If that’s what you need…”
> 
> -Lyrics from Christina Perri's "Human," which inspire the title of this work and its chapters.
> 
> ..
> 
> This is my first DBH fanfic, so be prepared for slightly OOC Connor and Hank as I struggle to understand and portray their characters correctly. The one thing I know I got right is that Hank curses. A lot. Connor cracks a few wise jokes, and there's an argument over orange juice. Just a slice of that sweet, sweet domestic life we all crave for the Anderson family. Sit back, grab a glass of (PULPLESS) orange juice, and enjoy the shitshow that ensues.

After the revolution, Detroit was struggling to adjust to the new android protection acts put into place by the federal government.

A handful of rules were put in place to give the new law-abiding citizens of Detroit some protection from the anti-android protestors ransacking every ex-CyberLife store in their grasp - except, luckily, the one Markus claimed as a safe-haven and repair shop (there were disagreements whether the location should be considered a ‘hospital,’ because some androids liked the idea of the human characteristics, whereas others wanted to be as  _ separated _ from the humans as possible).

So, basic laws were put in place to protect androids from violence and give them basic ‘human’ rights. 

One of the more recent laws was that of officer-androids and detectives: should they be allowed to carry loaded firearms? The debate took seventy-four hours and a lot of arguing (a chair was even thrown on a few accounts) to decide: due to the fact that androids are considered  _ people _ above all, yes, they should be given the same protective measures a human would. While some androids still declined to carrying around weapons (probably for the greater good, with all the antis swarming Detroit’s streets), detectives were  _ required _ to carry a protective firearm. 

This includes Connor. Hank turned to him as he was fixing his uniform one morning before work, muting the newscast babbling about the new law. Connor paused in pressing his hair into its neat fashion and turned to the detective, sensing an argument brewing.  _ Argument #15, _ his processes helpfully supplied. Perhaps it would be better to defuse the bomb before it was ready to explore.

“Lieutenant-”

“ _ Hank. _ ”

“Hank,” Connor correctly smoothly, adjusting his standard black tie, “I don’t need to be armed.”

“You’ll do as I damn say you will. You’re not getting your head blown off because some petty human decided they didn’t like the color of your blood.”

“They don’t dislike only my blood, but rather, my entire being-”

“Can it. You’re carrying the fucking thing and that’s final.” 

And that was that.

_________

The firearm was stashed in a nifty handgun holster that Hank had specifically detailed for Connor. It was an elegant, expensive little thing that didn’t go too well with Connor’s standard CyberLife jacket and black trousers, but he kept it on his belt anyway. It was a soft, dark black leather that wrapped delicately around the new handgun in its hold. The holster’s design was almost indistinguishable to anyone further than a few feet from Connor, but it was special in ways few understood. 

Engraved on the soft leather was a small photo of Sumo, his name was written in neat cursive underneath his paws. Hank thought it was dorky and a childish thing to put on a  _ gun holster, _ but Connor didn’t mind. The lieutenant had tossed it awkwardly into Connor’s lap a few days after the law had been signed. 

_ “What’s this, Lieutenant?” _

_ “It’s Hank. Stop calling me by my damn title when you live in my house. Just look at it, for fuck’s sake.” Connor picked up the small gift, turning it this way and that.  _

_ “A handgun holster for a .40 Smith & Wesson M&P series. It will hold a standard Detroit Police Department-issued handgun comfortably.” Connor paused in his scans, head trying to wrap around the meaning behind the object. He dubbed the constant spinning of his thoughts ‘confusion.’  _

_ “Is this for your gun, Lieutenant? I thought you didn’t care for luxuries, as this leather holster seems to be of the highest grade-” _

_ “Just shut up,” Hank said, running a hand down his face. “It’s yours. The new law says you androids get guns now in the precinct, right? So I got you a holster.” _

_ “I could’ve had an ordinary holster, Lieutenant.” _

_ “This one was made for  _ you _ , you plastic prick. Look at it.” Connor twisted the holster to look at the engraving on the left side. Sumo was pictured with his tongue dangling from his mouth, his lips upturned in an almost-smile. Hank watched Connor’s LED flash a brilliant yellow as he considered the engraving. He guessed Connor was trying to figure out the meaning behind to his newfound feelings. _

_ Connor looked up at Hank and flashed him a small, gracious smile. That was enough to have Hank moving to the couch, shoving Connor’s legs off his side, and flipping on the game. Connor settled in comfortably next to him. Sumo’s head on his socked feet, he ran his fingers along the engraving with that small smile still on his face. Hank scowled against the warmth beneath his ribcage, and turned his head to watch the Detroit Gears score another three points.  _

_________

“Connor, wake up you plastic asshole!” Connor was woken from his standby position on the couch by Hank’s grouching. He shifted to find Sumo snuggled against him, his head a heavy weight on the android’s abdomen. The big St. Bernard let out a low whine as Connor moved to stand.

He’d declined Cole’s room when it was offered to him. He was well aware that he wasn’t worthy of the lieutenant’s late son’s room. He didn’t dare allow his deviancy to even ponder whether he could become a son-like figure to him.  _ Androids don’t have fathers, let alone families. _

He was, after all, not Hank’s son. He was an android assigned as his partner to assist on homicide cases involving irrational deviants and suspects. 

Sometimes, Hank says still he acts too much like a machine. Maybe he’s right.

Connor stood and slowly grabbed his CyberLife jacket as his systems woke from standby. “Lieutenant?” 

“In here!” Connor walked into Hank’s room, LED immediately glowing yellow with alarm at the sight of the older man on his bedroom floor. 

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?”

“I tripped over Sumo. Been calling your ass for a fucking hour,” he grumbled, clutching his swollen ankle. The skin was red and bruised, as if Hank had tried to walk on it several times and only made it worse. Connor ran a quick scan. 

“You’ve only twisted it,” he explained, reaching to swat Hank’s hands away from the injury. “Stop squeezing it, Lieutenant. You’re increasing the swelling.” Hank disregarded  his command and rubbed the sore spot again, earning another flick to the hand. 

“We’ve got to be in the precinct by ten, for fuck’s sake. That damn dog. Jeffery’s going to have my ass.” Connor ignored Hank’s grumbling in favor of standing and searching for the first-aid kit he stashed in the bathroom a few weeks after meeting the lieutenant. He barely had Band-Aids, let alone the proper care kit a human should keep in their household. 

He supposed it wouldn’t have mattered to Hank anyway before Connor. Memories of a revolver on a kitchen floor surface in his processes. He thrusts them away when his systems send up flashes of errors.  _ Stress levels: 45%. _

Retrieving a sturdy Ace bandage and splint from its contents, Connor made his way back to the loud cursing in the master bedroom. Once again ignoring Hank’s attempts at blaming Sumo (Connor firmly believed the dog was the victim in this situation), Connor gingerly took the man’s ankle and wrapped it with the expert guidance he gained from a downloaded tutorial. 

“Is that better, Lieutenant?” Instead of answering, Hank wobbled to his feet, gently standing on the swollen ankle. He moved his weight back and forth, testing out Connor’s splint with a surprised look. “Perhaps you need some painkillers?”

“It’s fine. Get me some clothes while I piss. I’ve had to for-fucking-ever.” Limping to the bathroom, the man slammed the door shut with a satisfied grunt. Connor rose to his feet to scan the contents of the lieutenant’s closet, deciding on a rich purple button-up and black leather jacket for his attire. Setting the outfit on the bed, Connor moved to fill Sumo’s bowl and start Hank’s (to his disdain, healthy) breakfast. 

He didn’t have much time after fixing Hank’s ankle, as the time read 8:47 AM, so he decided to whip up a small batch of whole-grain pancakes to pair with an 8-oz. glass of pulp-free orange juice. He remembers trying to buy the juice with pulp, insisting it was healthier, only to have the carton ripped from his fingers and replaced with pulp-free. 

_ “I’m not drinking that pulp shit unless I’m dying.” _

_ “This will further delay the event of your death, ironically, Lieutenant.” _

_ “Then I’ll die instead.” _

Connor, uncomfortable with the idea of Hank’s passing as the memory of Hank’s gun pressed against his own skull was still burning in the back of his memories, let the subject drop immediately. 

Despite his best interests, pre-deviant Connor had recorded most of his interactions with Lieutenant Anderson so that he could memorize the contents and improve his relationship with the man. This, unfortunately, included the discovery of Hank’s game of Russian Roulette. Now deviant, he didn’t have the heart to erase the recording but simply let it sit in a closed folder in the back of his mind.

The lieutenant had graciously changed the subject at the sight of Connor’s LED spinning a dark red. Connor had set the less-healthy orange juice in the rickety shopping cart that Hank somehow insisted was better than ordering groceries online. 

It only took a few minutes for Hank to limp from his bedroom, the new shirt (a gift from Connor during his first few weeks of deviancy, as a sign of gratitude to the older detective for all he went through and sacrificed) resting well with the black leather coat. 

“What shitty breakfast am I eating this morning? Oatmeal with disgusting cheese seeds in it? Tasteless yogurt? A plain bagel with an egg sitting on top?”

“It’s chia seeds,” Connor corrected, turning to slide two whole-grain pancakes onto Hank’s plate as he collapsed into one of his wobbly wooden chairs. Cole’s paint-covered fingertips still wrapped around one arm of it. “This morning I decided to let you have something a bit more ‘your style.’ Whole-grain pancakes-” Hank grumbled at the words ‘whole-grain,’ “-with maple syrup.”

“Will I ever be able to have bacon and greasy eggs again? Sausage? What about some plain ol’ biscuits?” Connor wiped his fingers on the towel thrown over his shoulder as he moved to clean the dirtied dishes from cooking. 

“Perhaps when we can get your cholesterol down from the alarmingly high level of 7.3, you can have some  _ turkey _ bacon and grease-less scrambled eggs with vegetables.” Hank sent him a one-fingered salute as he chopped his pancakes up and caked them in syrup despite Connor’s urging.

The kitchen clean, he made sure to take Hank’s used plate and set it in the sink. A short glance at the clock on the microwave read 9:26 AM. He’d have to clean it later.

A jingling of keys brought Connor to the present as he glanced over at the older man stuffing his feet into his boots. “Lieutenant, do you think you’re going to drive with an injury?” 

“What are you, my fucking mom?” He moved to tear the keys from Hank’s grasp.

“Actually, I’m an android that was specifically built to solve crimes,” he responded, casting Hank a sly look. “I’m also capable of driving your car to the precinct.” 

“I can drive my own damn car.”

“Probabilities of you crashing and killing either yourself, me, or both of us are staggeringly high, Lieutenant. A high rate of-” Hank looked decently horrified at the statistics Connor was reading from his systems, which prompted him to continue. “87%. That is, unless you want to put both yourself and I in danger and thwart DPD’s best chances at solving homicides?” 

Hank felt slightly proud at the young android for cracking a joke, not that he’d tell him that. (Though the statistics really did scare the shit out of him.)

“I get it, you fucking asshole. Take the damn keys and get a move on. Did you feed Sumo?”

“Always, Lieutenant. He only ate a small fraction of his meal this morning, however. Do you think he needs to see a veterinarian?” The kid loved that damn dog, that was for sure.

Hank wasn’t really mad at Sumo for his injury, seeing as he was the one who tripped over the big lug in the first place. Connor’s lips were turned down in a small frown as he considered the possibility that Sumo could be sick or, worse, hurt. 

“He’s fine, son. That dog could overpower  _ Jeffery _ if he wanted to. The bastard deserves it sometimes.” This seemed to brighten the kid’s expression a bit as he moved to give the St. Bernard a soft pat on the head, earning him a face-full of slobber. 

“Okay. Goodbye, Sumo. See you tonight.” Connor carefully carried the keys to the car, ignoring the daring looks Hank sent him at the thought of Connor driving his dear car. Starting up the ignition and snapping his seat-belt into place, Connor maneuvered the car out into the street and started the fifteen minute drive to the Detroit Police Station.

“Today’s going to be a shitty day,” Hank noted, leaning back and resting his arm along his face. Connor nodded, despite the lieutenant’s covered eyes. 

“A long one, at least, Lieutenant.”


	2. I can bite my tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Connor arrive at the precinct rattled, Fowler gives Connor his new gun, and Connor can't wait for taco night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On my last chapter, I received a nasty comment saying that my characters aren't, well, in character. I mentioned it before and I'll say it one more time: I'm aware of that. This is my first DBH fanfic, and I'm still grappling with how to write Hank and Connor, nonetheless any other characters in the game. You'll have to bear with me through this as I try to balance how much they curse and what they say. 
> 
> This chapter is more of a filler chapter to kind of lay out the rest of the story, but I promise it's important to understand later events. Once again, bear with me as I unravel the judicial system, as it's the first time I've written anything involving a legal case. 
> 
> Despite all this, enjoy! (:

Connor and Hank arrive at the precinct fifteen minutes late, dusted in a healthy layer of snow, and completely shaken. Hank’s ankle throbs at the weight he’s pressing on it, but he’ll be damned if he limps around like a kid with a busted knee all day. He glances at Connor, to see how the android is holding up after their scare, and finds him pale and distant. The few officers already at work side-eye them curiously.

Hank brushes off Connor’s standard CyberLife jacket half-heartedly (why the kid won’t just dump it, despite knowing the history behind it, he doesn’t know, but he’s not inclined to argue with him right now), lightly gripping the back of his neck in a comforting gesture. 

“It’s alright, son. It’s not your fault. The car swerved out in front of you.” Connor drops his gaze to his hands and silently passes Hank his ancient car keys. He drops his hand from Connor’s neck to take them, shoving them into his pocket. Hank swears he feels a slight tremor in the kid’s hands -- whether from the shock or fear, he didn’t know, but it had him giving Connor a once over to make sure he wasn’t hurt. _Damaged_ , Connor would say.

It took a couple of moments for Connor to finally speak.

Hank watches his LED, willing it back to a calm blue. It’s been yellow since the near-accident. He takes a couple of seconds to watch it spin and pulse with alarm. _Damn thing nearly_ stays _yellow, nowadays._

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

“How many times does it take to get in your head that’s it’s fine? I swear I’ve told you so many times that it wasn’t your fault. The truck lost control on the fucking ice and slid towards us. You did everything you had to do, braked at the right time, and-”

“Lieutenant.”

“-you wore your seatbelt and everything. Who even wears seatbelts anymore?”

“ _Hank_.” Hank broke off at his name -- his actual one that Connor stubbornly refuses (despite his urging) to use. Maybe it’s to piss him off? He knows he’s rambling, but he’s trying to make the kid feel better.

“What, Connor?”

“Cole,” he said, raising his eyes to meet the lieutenant’s. Guilt rests there, and Hank knows it’s an emotion he actually _does_ understand. He’s heard the tales of Connor’s near-extermination of Markus and dealt with the aftermath. Sometimes, the kid just needed a good hug to calm down, and other times it took a forceful statis from his programming to calm his stress levels. This time, Hank tries to use his words to get him to quiet down. He couldn’t very well pull him into a hug in the middle of the office without more than a few prying stares. They were already watching them enough as is.

“I didn’t want you to feel-”

“Jesus Christ, Connor. I hadn’t even thought of that.” He brought a hand to his face, wiping away the wrinkles for a moment. Connor watches them come back, anxious at what Hank had to say. He didn’t realize how much he depended on Hank’s opinions until now. If the lieutenant were to kick him out - reject him, what would he do? Where would he go?

He doesn’t want to go back to CyberLife, where bad memories spark and he has to sit in a tiny charging station and awkwardly move around the building of the company he almost died in. That Hank almost died in.

Or Jericho, where he has to remember what he ( _Amanda_ , he corrects himself, _Amanda tried to kill him_ ) tried to do to Markus. The stares there are suffocating. So many androids, so much guilt to go around. It felt like he was drowning in it. North sends him glares every chance she gets. Markus doesn’t mind and has told him numerous times he forgives him and that it wasn’t his fault, but the idea of staying there until he can find the money and housing he needs to be on his own--

He wants to be with Hank and Sumo. 

“Look, what happened to Cole is different. I was the driver then. I was at fault.” Connor snaps back to attention, pushing away his internal turmoil at the thought of being disposed.

“It wasn’t your fault!” Hank pauses at Connor’s outburst, noticing a few heads swivel to survey the noise. At his cold stare, they quickly move to act like they’re not listening, but he can see Tina shift to hear better as she pretends to fill out a report. Eavesdropping bastards. He turns Connor away from the face of the precinct, into a corner so that they weren’t standing in the middle of the floor.

“Cole wasn’t your fault. It was the driver’s. And no matter how hard I followed the rules of the road, I still managed to put you in danger. Memories,” he said, dropping his eyes, “can be powerful weapons sometimes. I don’t want to find you drunk on the floor again-”

Hank has had enough. Grabbing the kid’s arm and dragging him to their desks, he forces Connor into his chair, waits until he adjusts himself to sit properly, and folds his arms. “Listen up, kid, I’m only going to say this once.” Connor kept quiet, nodding as he waited for the lieutenant’s verdict.

“Cole died three years ago. That’s not a long time, but it sure feels like it with the revolution and all that.” He takes a deep breath. “Look, what happened on the way here wasn’t your fault. Humans don’t know how to fucking drive. We’re impatient and never look both ways. That isn’t your fault. Memories be damned, Connor, I spent the whole time worrying about _you_ , for fuck’s sake. Stop taking all of the blame here. You really think I’d be standing here in this police station if I was thinking about my son? Jimmy’s Bar opens at nine, kid.” Hank watches Connor’s mouth twitch down in a frown at the prospect of him drinking until he’s too drunk to load a gun. But it’s the only way to get his point across. To be honest, he feels a bit bad about it.

“I’m still sorry.”

“Connor, one of these days I’m going to beat what I’m trying to say into you-”

“Sorry for putting you in danger, at the very least, Lieutenant.” Connor shifts a bit under Hank’s hard stare, noting the way the lieutenant’s eyes fill with confusion. “The statistics were very high,” he tries to explain, stumbling over his words. How do you tell someone they had a large probability of dying at your hands? He swallows and tries again. “You could’ve died today, Lieutenant. Because of me.”

“Well,” Hank says after a pause, slapping Connor on the back, “I didn’t. Come on, let’s get to work.” And the subject’s dropped.

_________

Half an hour after Connor and Hank have settled in at their desks and began filling out the paperwork from their latest closed case, Fowler stomps in and places a gun on Connor’s desk.

The android stares at it, and then at the captain.

“Good morning, captain. Can I help you?” The less-formal tone with the captain makes Connor squirm a bit, uncomfortable with casual speech towards his boss, but he knows Fowler prefers that his employees talk to him like an equal.

“This,” Fowler says gruffly, pointing at the handgun on Connor’s desk, “is your new DPD-issued handgun. It just got finalized this morning. You are to carry it around with you to every case, and you’re not allowed to bitch at me or Anderson about it taking it with you. It is the _law_ , and I’ll be damned before I have the feds breathing down my neck.” Hank watches the exchange, arms crossed in amusement as he leans back in his chair. Connor makes a note to pay him back later.

Connor contemplates the probabilities of losing his job if he argues with Captain Fowler about the handgun. The captain didn’t take well to what he calls ‘back-talk,’ and he knows Hank has a steep file due to disciplinary forms. Arguing would only put him at a disadvantage if he wanted to get more cases. Deeming the risk too high, he simply comes up with an answer he believes will satisfy Fowler.

“Of course, captain. The lieutenant has already informed me of what will happen if I do not carry it around.” This earns a snort from the ragged man across from him. “Anything else I can help you with?”

Fowler accepts his answer after a heartbeat and sighs. “There’s a new case that you and Anderson need to check out. A deviant android slaughtered three humans this morning, all young men. New laws say we gotta treat all androids the same as humans, so I’m sending you two to check out the last known location. Files are already in the system. Suspect’s name is Mia Persson, and she’s an AX400 recently seen working at a nearby motel down the block.” He pauses to take a deep breath, resting a hand on Connor’s desk. “This is a highly sensitive case. Three humans killed by a deviant android causes room to fuck up Jericho’s plans of a peaceful transition into a life for both humans and deviants. Now, I wasn’t particularly fond of the whole revolution, but that kid Markus needs all the help he can get. We _cannot_ fuck this up.” Fowler looks between Hank and Connor, letting the emphasis on the case sink in. “The press are gonna be all over this. I need you to keep a low profile, and make sure none of the little bastards get any information on our suspect. Got it?”

“Is there any connection between the victims?”

“None that we know of. Motive might be revenge, or just some disgusting game they like to play.” The captain rubs his chin thoughtfully. “We’ve had a few cases where the murderer just liked to kill for fun. Let’s hope this isn’t another one of those. Get ready to head out. The faster we get samples, the faster we can end the bodies piling up.”

“Yes, captain. However, there has been a delay.” Hank kicks Connor with his good leg. He ignores the pain prickling at his shin as he continues to let Fowler know what happened. His program angrily buzzes about in confusion, but that’s normal now. Android programs still didn’t know what to do about pain. “Lieutenant Anderson will be unable to accompany me on this case. His ankle was twisted this morning.”

Fowler sends a murderous glare to his old friend. “Are you fucking kidding me, Hank?”

“You act like it was my damn fault.”

“How do I know it wasn’t? You’re always trying to get days off so you can sit on the couch and watch the game. Did you slip on a bottle of whiskey?” Hank ignores the jab, opening his mouth to argue some more.

“Actually,” Connor interjects, earning himself yet another warning kick from Hank, “he tripped over Sumo this morning-”

“That’s enough!” Hank slams his hand not-so-gently onto his desk. It makes Connor jump, LED flashing yellow for a moment before defaulting back to blue. “I don’t need to be here all damn day, Jeffery. I’m perfectly capable of going out and getting your samples.” 

Connor wonders if he’s saying this just to hide his embarrassment.

Fowler roars with laughter, earning more looks from the rest of the DPD. “You tripped over your own damn dog, Hank? You really are getting old.” Hank flips him the bird, resting his head on his arm in defeat.

Yes, it’s definitely to hide his embarrassment. He’s going to tease the lieutenant about this later.

“You said the files are in the terminal, captain?” To make up for this morning’s near-disaster, he decides to take some of the fire off of Hank. “I’d like to look at them. In the meantime, how should we consider our next course of action?”

Fowler straightens his face, wiping away the last of his tears with his finger. A couple of smiles filter on his face. “The files are in the system already. It was reported at 3:04 this morning. Reed happened to be in at that time.” Connor would very much like to avoid Gavin this morning. A quick glance around the room confirms the detective's absence. 

Fowler pauses to consider what to do about Hank’s injury. “Anderson will be on paperwork today. You’ll go out on a solo machine mission.”

“Hey, hey, hey, Jeffery. He’s not a fucking machine.” Hank lifts his head. “Don’t fucking call him that.”

“Hank, he _is_ a ‘fucking machine.’ It’s not a damn insult.”

“With all the protesting going on, who’s to know?” This earns a sigh from Fowler as he rests a hand on his hip.

“Fine. Whatever. He can take samples in seconds when our forensics team takes hours to calculate a blood sample from an android. I’m sending him in so he can collect those, at least. I’m not letting this case get to the feds. That’s final.”

“You can’t send the kid out there on his own. For fuck’s sake, Jeffery. He’s still a rookie.”

“Lieutenant, I am quite literally built to handle cases-”

“Shut up, Connor. Built or not, you’re not going in alone.”

“Stop your bitching, Hank! You’re really starting to piss me off. The kid’s going in there and collecting the samples and that’s _final_. The longer you bitch and whine about him going, the longer it’s going to take for him to get back. Let him do his damn job.”

Connor watches the exchange silently, eyes darting from Hank to Fowler as they bicker. He was perfectly capable of investigating a scene on his own. However, it didn’t stop the warmth that bloomed in his chest as Hank protected him. _Is this how Cole felt?_

Fowler shoves the handgun at Connor, moving to go to his office. “Take the gun, keep quiet, and do _not_ go looking for trouble, you hear me? I have enough on my ass without you dying or some shit. Do not give me more paperwork.”

“Noted, captain. Thank you.” The idea of carrying a handgun makes his stomach feel sick, but he knows it’s the only way to appease Hank and carry on with the investigation. The lieutenant is watching Connor scan the documents he’ll need as he goes out into the field, anger pressing his lips into a thin line.

“You better not fucking die on me, son.” Connor pauses downloading, looking at Hank with what he hopes is a comforting smile.

“I’ll be fine, Hank. I’m just collecting samples, as Captain Fowler suggested.”

“Yeah, but if I know you, you’ll try to do much more than that.” Hank moves to stand up, ignoring Connor’s protests, and limps his way over to the android. Connor doesn’t know what to say to his accusation (he doesn’t want to lie), so he just keeps quiet.

That is, until Hank pulls him for a bone-crushing hug. 

“Don’t disappoint Sumo by dying, kid. That dog needs you.” Connor’s reply is muffled by Hank’s jacket, and he sucks in a deep breath to smell the whiskey and cigarette smoke settled deep into the leather. Deep down, he knows Hank isn’t really talking about Sumo, but he decides to play along. The lieutenant’s had enough teasing for the day. 

“I won’t die.” It sounds like a promise. Hank releases him and ruffles his hair roughly, earning himself a glare. 

“Try to come back early. Maybe we can cook up some tacos or something.”

“I don’t require-”

“ _I know._ We all know you can’t eat. But you can still cook, yeah? That’ll be fun.” Connor pauses and nods. _Fun_. He can’t help but imagine that it seems like an activity a father and son would partake in. Remembering Cole, he shoves the ideas away, cursing his deviant programming.

“Hurry up before Fowler comes out here pissing himself.”

“I’ll be back soon, Lieutenant,” Connor says, turning back to his desk to download the rest of the files. At Hank’s insistence, he tucks his new gun into the holster without a second glance at the deadly weapon. Hank shoves a beanie onto Connor’s head, not bothering to straighten it.

“You better be.”

Connor sets foot outside the precinct and into the still-falling snow. Anxiety worms its way into his processes, sending pop-ups of the probabilities of death or injury. He brushes his thumb along the image of Sumo on his holster to ground himself, shifting his weight as he downloads the location to the building the suspect was last seen at. It only takes a second, but Connor somehow wishes it took longer.

Adjusting the beanie on his (now ruined) hair, he steps into the waiting taxi and tells the automated system his destination.


	3. I can dance and play the part

The building is, for lack of a better word, disgusting. 

At first glance, it seems as if the thing was condemned. The columns sag to the side, and everything has an eerie blue color to it that trails up the side of the house. Plants are dead along the path to the main door, which swings open with a loud creak when Connor brushes his knuckles along it to knock. It nearly falls off its hinges, throwing itself against the living room wall with an echoing slam. No one seems to come running at him with a weapon, so he determines that it’s clear. 

Taking a minute to scan the rest of the room, he calculates any possible evidence of recent activity. Androids don’t have fingerprints, so he has to be very careful as to not miss any potential clues.

There’s a variety of more dead plants adorning one wall (he’s disappointed they weren’t cared for and wishes there was a way to save them), pots cracked and spilling dirt into the hardwood floor, which doesn’t look much better. It’s covered in stains and is rotten in places water has dripped in through the roof. A quick scan of it reveals several patches of thirium, but the blood is too old to be connected to their suspect. He disregards it, though it makes his spine shiver. 

The window curtain flutters in the wind, bringing with it the smell of sewer water and sulfur. (He’s not exactly sure why that’s what it smells like, but it does.) Furniture is crushed and looks to have been thrown around in a fight. Empty bags containing traces of red ice litter the floor, which at least proves he didn’t come here for nothing. He’d have some evidence for a drug bust, if this happens to be a false sighting of the suspect. Taking a quick sample of the red ice for processing back at the forensics lab, he stoops to peer at dried human blood. It’s too old to be connected to Mia Perssons, at least 34 days old, but it’s still odd to be here. Perhaps there was a domestic fight between an android and human before this place was abandoned. Before the revolution.

He’s suddenly glad new laws have been put in place to protect him and other deviants. 

The kitchen gives him a little bit to work with: a few thirium samples that are distinctly fresh but too small to analyze and a recently moved chair. He logs the evidence before he examines the fridge and finds it with half-spoiled food. _Androids don’t eat. A human has been here recently._

The food isn’t exactly meant for the fridge. It’s a handful of non-perishables that humans buy when a natural disaster is said to come soon. He runs his finger along the door of the fridge and finds it with only a light coating of dust, unlike the rest of the kitchen. Why would a human put non-perishables in a fridge that doesn’t even have electricity? 

Unless an android didn’t know what to do with it and stuck it in the fridge. 

He takes a deep breath to cool the tension he feels growing in his shoulders. Fowler said the building would be empty, didn’t he? A quick replay of his memories confirms that yes, the suspect is not supposed to have been still here. Connor’s not exactly sure what to do.

His program tells him to gather the samples he has now and report to Captain Fowler and wait for further instructions. For backup. For Hank.

The deviancy that took over his processes two months ago tells him to investigate the scene as if it were a crime, find the potential suspect. To prove himself to Captain Fowler and the whole precinct. To show that he isn’t just a detective that wormed his way through the ranks. To (as Hank would say) ‘stick it’ to Detective Reed. 

This is his first mission. If he plays his cards right, this could put him forth for a promotion and bigger cases. 

He stands in the kitchen and rests his palm on a chair, squeezing it as he considered his options. It cracks a bit under the sudden pressure. Impressing the captain would be a good way to get points on his record -- get him closer to a higher position one day. He _wants_ to build his career. But Hank would be worried. If he got shot (or worse) Hank would be left alone again. 

_“You better not fucking die on me, son.”_

He promised he wouldn’t die. The scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke still cling to his CyberLife jacket from the hug. 

_I almost killed him this morning._

_But he didn’t die, did he?_

_He could have._

If Connor can make up for this morning -- for bringing up those memories that haunt the lieutenant -- it would be worth diving into trouble, wouldn’t it?

Releasing his grip on the kitchen chair, he moves to examine the backyard, and finds it empty of any clues.

He just hopes he’ll make it home for taco night. 

_________

After about two hours of paperwork, Lieutenant Hank Anderson was about to toss his computer across the room. Connor’s been gone for a little over three hours, and Hank was twitching with anxiety. How long does it take to gather a few samples and come back to the precinct? It’s not like there’s that much to do at abandoned buildings, unless he’s found some dog to pet. 

He tries to chalk it up to that.

The truth is, Hank hasn’t heard from Connor in a while and it’s got him all riled up. The kid’s usually blowing up his phone with text messages, whether they’re updates on the case or just a weird thing like ‘I pet a dog today, Lieutenant!’ At this point, he’d rather have the mass text messages that give his phone a seizure than the remote silence. What if something is wrong and the kid needs backup?

Gavin walks in just as Hank stands to get himself some coffee from the breakroom. He watches the detective walk over to the receptionist (who happens to be an android) and aggressively clocks in. 

“Don’t tell me if I’m fucking late, you shitty plastic pet.” 

“Reed!” Fowler stomps out of his office, the glass door slamming against the wall. Hank briefly wonders if it’ll break -- again. “You’re fucking late! And stop being an asshole to my employees!” 

“I was here at three this morning, what the hell are you talking about?” Gavin runs a hand through his hair, tugging on it a bit. “Jesus Christ, am I not allowed to sleep?” The hand moves down to rub at his face, catching on the slight stubble growing. For once, Hank agrees with him: the boy looks dead on his feet. He waits for the coffee machine to fill his mug as he leans against the counter to listen in. 

“Look, we don’t have time for talking,” Fowler says, tapping Gavin on the chest with a new file. “Another report just came in for a red ice cartel, and I need you to crack into it. All our drug force officers are way too loaded to take on another case.” Gavin snatches the file from where Fowler is tapping it on his chest and cards through it.

“Why me? I’m on homicide. Why not make Anderson take the weight?” Hank hears Jeffery sigh loudly in exasperation. “You know as well as I do that his plastic pet could dismantle this in a few days. This could take me _weeks_ to break down.” He pauses in his reading to examine a photo.

“Connor,” Fowler corrects sternly, “is out on a homicide case right now. You’re the only available detective and perfectly capable of taking care of this case. Do we have a problem here?” Hank’s lips upturn in a smirk as he sees Gavin open and close his mouth like a fish. It’s not everyday the detective runs out of smartass remarks.

“The plastic prick has a case? _Alone?_ Who the fuck let him do that?” The captain ignores him, crossing his arms.

“Are you going to take the case or not? Otherwise, get the hell out of my station.”

“Chill, old man. I’m taking your damn drug case.” 

Hank takes his coffee from the machine and dumps some sugar into it, stirring it slowly as Gavin stomps into the breakroom. The detective angrily snatches a mug from the cabinet and practically slams it on the machine with a wince. He’s pretty sure it would’ve cracked if he’d dropped it any harder. “What crawled up your ass and died, Anderson?”

“Nothing,” Hank says, amusement bleeding into his tone. “Watching you try to argue with Jeffery is a fuckin’ delight.” He limps over to the table in the middle of the breakroom and drops heavily into a chair. Gavin seems genuinely embarrassed at the comment.

“Fucking prick,” the detective mutters, yanking his coffee away roughly and getting it all over his hand. He shakes out his burned hand with a flurry of curses as he mops up the coffee that spilled onto the floor. Honestly, Hank feels bad for the kid. Not enough to actually admit it, though. He watches Gavin sit down at the other table and press his head into the crook of his arm, his burned hand stretched out on the table.

_________

Connor rises from his spot on the backyard porch to check out the next room, keeping an eye on the staircase nearby. Something about this place sends a chill down his spine. The back of his neck tingles every now and then, and he feels like he’s constantly being _watched_. It feels _wrong_. Hank would say it’s just some irrational feeling, so he just boils it down to just that: irrational anxiety. Frankly, he’s had enough of it for one day. 

It doesn’t do much to stop the ill feeling that pricks at the back of his neck. If he were human, his hair would stand on-end. Anxiously, he adjusts his tie as he tries to focus on the case.

He continues his search through the (hopefully) abandoned building. The bathroom is just gross, covered in stains and substances he wills his program _not_ to scan, and the first bedroom in the hallway is stripped bare. There’s not that much more to find downstairs, it seems. He slowly begins his trek upstairs, trying to keep his footsteps on the rickety staircase quiet. The last thing he needs is to get shot on his first solo mission.

Being quiet has never really stopped him from getting shot before, though, so he quickly gives up on it.

Despite what Hank told him specifically _not_ to do _countless times_ , he calls out to see if anyone is around.

“Hello?” He steps over a destroyed chair at the top of the steps, the stuffing pulled out of it haphazardly by rats. “Anybody home?” A scan reveals no fingerprints on the discarded chair.

Fortunately, there’s no answer. The feeling of being watched only grows worse.

The second bedroom is a small thing that looks to have been used for a human child. Toys are tossed about the room as if quickly left mid-play, and the walls are painted with a bunch of primary-colored handprints that have three hand sizes. _A mother, father, and child. Where did they go?_ He runs the paint by his programs and surprisingly comes up with some files: the family perished not too long ago during a house fire at a friend’s house. Connor frowns slightly, running a hand along the child’s print. 

He was scanning a wardrobe that looked to be recently moved when the floor creaks behind him.

“Put your fucking hands up and keep your mouth shut.” Connor turned slowly, raising his hands in surrender as he turns to look at the woman currently holding a gun to his chest. 

_________

At the four hour mark, Hank stands, aggressively snatching his jacket from the back of his chair. Jeffery glances over at him and raises an eyebrow, so he points at the door and taps his finger on a figurative watch to explain. All he gets is an annoyed shake of the head, but that’s enough for him.

“Where the hell are you headed, Anderson?” Gavin has his feet perched on his desk as he scrolls through his phone. The bastard doesn’t even look up as he asks the question. 

“What the fuck’s it to you?” The detective looks up and glares at Hank as he stops in front of his desk. 

“Looking for the plastic pet? Maybe he finally ran off with the other fucking androids.”

“Watch your mouth, Reed. Fowler’ll have it in for you if I told him about the way you keep treatin’ Connor. But really, why the fuck do you care?”

“Can’t I be bored? This drug case is going nowhere without samples of red ice, which take forever without your android around. How long did you say he’s going to be gone again?”

“Don’t know. Headed out to find him now.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

Hank runs a hand down his face in exasperation. Gavin is the worst person to carry a conversation with sometimes, especially when the detective wants information. He’ll take the info but never give any back. “Because he’s like my son? He’s been gone four hours, prick. Why would he be gone that long to collect samples?”

Gavin stares at him for a minute, as if trying to determine a response. He flicks through his phone for a few seconds. “I’ll come. You can’t drive anyway, old man.”

“Shut your fucking mouth. I can drive just fine.”

“Ankle says otherwise.” Gavin picks up his keys and jingles them tauntingly. “Besides, like I said, I need him to analyze my shit for me so I can get going on my case.” His hand is bandaged now, and Hank idly wonders who took the time to actually doctor-up _Gavin Reed_ of all people. The bandage job tells him it wasn’t the detective himself -- no one could get that good of a job done by themselves. He considers RK900 briefly, before deciding he doesn’t really care. 

“Whatever. Let’s go.” Gavin and Hank head to the car. Hank ignores the anxiety pooling in his gut as he climbs into the passenger seat. As Gavin pulls out of the precinct’s garage, he mutters a soft “hurry up.” The detective glances over at Hank before quietly letting his foot push a bit further on the gas pedal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're a bit OOC at the end there, but tbh I'm tired and have been sitting on this chapter for a few weeks, and editing just isn't in my system right now lmao


	4. I bleed when I fall down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavin really wishes he had his second cup of coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we have... gavin's pov. because why not?
> 
> thank you all for reading and commenting!

“Who are you?”

“My name is Connor, and I’m the android sent by the Detroit Police Department. I’ve been sent here to investigate a deviant thought to have killed three human men this morning.” The woman twitches her fingers on the trigger, moving closer to shoot. Connor suddenly wonders if he’s said the wrong thing. It sends his programs into a flurry, the probability of dangers swarming his optical units.

**RISK OF INJURY: 43%**

“You’re a cop?” At his nod, she steps forward boldly, moving the gun to point it at his head. “Why?”

“I was created by CyberLife to work alongside Lieutenant Anderson to hunt deviants,” he explains slowly, very aware of the gun pressing closer to his skull. He hopes Hank will come soon. He’s been gone too long. Four hours, according to his programs.

His words only make her tense more. “After the revolution,” Connor continues quickly, trying to hurry before he ends up with a bullet in his head, “I became deviant and started pursuing detective work at my own free will. I work in homicide. Are you Mia Perssons? The AX400?” 

The female android moves into the light, eyes hardened at her name. Her hair is cropped short, as if she cut it that way quickly and without care for appearances, and her clothes are tattered and dirty. Her LED is no longer on her temple, and a bit of thirium drips from her nose. Her grip on the gun, despite her ragged appearance, is unwavering. Her eyes dart around, as if looking for more cops stashed in the closet. 

“Mia?” He moves his hand to go for his gun -- for the protection. All it results in is a warning shot at his feet, causing him to shift back to avoid the bullet. He raises his hands in surprise.

“Keep your hands up or I swear I’ll blow your brains out.” She pauses, as if considering her next question. Now she has the upper hand. “How do you know my name?” Right. Negotiation. He was built for this. Connor keeps his hands held up near his chest, very aware of the bullets waiting to find a new home in his skin.

“We received a report this morning. Your thirium was at the last crime scene,” he says, motioning to her dripping nose. She angrily swipes at it, smearing it across her cheek. _Maybe she was injured?_ “We thought you might be a potential suspect for the death of those humans.” He pauses. “Are you? The murderer?” 

Mia readjusts her grip on the trigger, shifting her weight to her left leg. Connor tries to inch back from the gun as she considers what to say. All it does is earn him a chilling glare, so he elects to stand still, hands still raised. “Who else knows about that?”

“The case?” She nods, licking her lips anxiously. “The entire Detroit Police Department. We take cases very seriously and any secretive cases are frowned upon--”

“But you said it was this morning.” He shuts his mouth, processors working to understand the meaning behind her words. “That means only you and whatever filthy cops there this morning know about the case. Who knows about my blood traces?”

Connor pauses, eyes flicking about the room in an attempt to find something to disengage the conversation with. He doesn’t want to give information to a murderous deviant, but the gun nearly pressed against his skull urges his programs to either find a solution or keep talking to stay alive. _Will she go after Hank?_

“As I said, the entire precinct--”

“Names.” Mia seems to find some sort of internal grounding as she steps forward and presses the barrel against his forehead. “I want specific names.”

_No._

“No.” Her grip on the trigger tightens.

“Give me the fucking names or I’ll blow your brains out.”

**RISK OF INJURY: 87%**

“I refuse to give you any information that you could use to hurt others, Mia.” Connor is well aware he’s probably going to die now. But to let her have the precinct’s names would put them in danger. 

All of the cops in the bullpen, laughing and joking around, have slowly become his _friends_. Tina likes to tease him and Nines about their cluelessness. Gavin shoots him insults, but he’s learning not to take them personally. Fowler gives him a hard pat on the back after every successful case. Nines gives him small smiles, still struggling to adjust to his newfound deviancy. Ben and Chris like to ask him to analyze samples and fall into giggles everytime Hank shouts that he’s being disgusting.

Tina. Gavin. Ben. Sumo. Chris. Hank. Nines. Fowler. 

They could be tracked, hunted, and killed just because they’re involved with or know of the case. He’d rather die than let them be hunted like prey and tore to pieces. 

“You fucking bastard. Why do you even care what those humans say to you? Do you really believe they care about you? They don’t. None of them do. You’re just a _machine_ to them.” She spits the word like a curse. 

Her eyes focus on his spinning LED, briefly smiling at the bright yellow it shines in the dark room. 

“You’re being played, Connor. They don’t care about you. They don’t love you. They only want your skills. The computer inside your skull.” His chest feels tight as fear starts to creep in. He might die. 

_I don’t want to die._

**RISK OF INJURY: 96%**

“I have a family.” This seems to surprise her, because her fingers twitch slightly off the trigger. “I have a father and dog. They’re my family, Mia.” 

“Androids don’t have families. They don’t own pets. And they certainly don’t have _fathers_.” Uncertainty weighs in her gaze. Does she really want to kill people, or does she just need help?

**RISK OF INJURY: 63%**

“We plan on making tacos for dinner,” he says lamely. But that’s all he can think about. 

Tacos with Hank and Sumo tonight. The game blaring on the TV as Hank hoots with every score. Prying a second beer bottle out of Hank’s hand. Taking Sumo out for a walk with Hank to help him exercise off some of the food he ate. Sumo pressing his large head into Connor’s lap until he gets sufficient attention. The weight of Sumo on his stomach as he lets himself fall into stasis on the couch. Teasing the lieutenant every morning about his awful morning routine.

He wants all of these things.

“You can’t eat.” Mia jams the gun against his head roughly. “You’re a machine. You can’t eat.”

**RISK OF INJURY: 89%**

“Maybe.” Connor thinks back to what Hank said this morning, a small smile playing on his lips. “But I can still cook. It’ll be fun.”

**RISK OF INJURY: 97%**

_________

If anybody had told Gavin Reed that he would be carting Anderson around for half an hour in an attempt to find his plastic pet at ten a.m. on a Monday morning he would’ve told them to ‘fuck off.’ 

Of course, he never gets what he fucking wants. 

All he wanted was a nice, hot cup of black coffee to wake him up from his three hour nap earlier and to piss RK900 off with his awful work schedule. “Nines” would’ve told him off, swept his feet off the desk, and jammed Gavin’s glasses on his face to get him to work. 

As he said, nothing ever goes his way. 

Now he’s driving a police cruiser through a really creepy neighborhood with an anxious Hank Anderson and really questioning his career options. Getting shot really isn’t on his to-do list today, but the fucking asshole next to him keeps bitching about finding Connor or whatever and getting him home. 

He wishes he brought a cup of coffee to-go so he could deal with all of this shit while caffeinated. 

“Right there,” Hank says gruffly, jabbing his finger at the nearby shit-stain looking building. “Connor said he was heading here to collect samples.” 

“And what, the plastic prick thought he could go himself? Or is he just that stupid?”

Hank ignores Gavin’s comments and clambers out the car, pulling his gun out of his holster. Gavin sighs loudly (no one ever said he isn’t a bit dramatic sometimes) and cuts off the engine. He steps out onto the gravel driveway and rests his hand on his own gun, allowing Hank to make the first move. 

If anyone’s getting shot today, it’s not him. Hell, he already has a burned hand, he doesn’t need a bullet in his flesh too. It’s like he’s collecting all the lucky stars for injuries today. His white bandage glares up at him, a silent reminder that now he has to pay Nines back with some favor. The stupid android insisted on helping him wrap the bandage around his hand when he noticed Gavin struggling. He was doing just fine, thank you. 

He got Nines to fix him a cup of coffee, though, so whatever. Maybe he can just get out of doing work by feigning pain later.

They stroll up to the porch, stepping as to make as little noise as possible on the shifting gravel. Honestly, the building is disgusting. So gross that he’s sure even Connor would be a little wary of entering. Nines too, maybe. If the dick was behaving ‘human’ enough. 

“Keep quiet,” Hank hisses at him as he steps inside the already-open doorway, earning himself a swift punch to the shoulder from Gavin. 

“I know how to investigate a fucking crime scene, Anderson.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” This time he does, but only because of the soft chatter drifting downstairs.

Gavin slowly pulls out his own gun, flicking off the safety instinctually. 

_________

Okay, so, maybe Hank was right and Connor shouldn’t just ignore the fact that he has a gun in his holster. And maybe he shouldn’t piss off the suspect. Or yell ‘anyone home?’ as he walks into a supposedly abandoned building. 

He thinks all of this as the first shot sinks itself into his left arm.

**BICOMPONENT DAMAGED. PLEASE CONTACT CYBERLIFE FOR REPAIRS.**

**THIRIUM LEVEL 94% AND DROPPING.**

He steps backward at the impact, dazedly looking down at his arm. Despite the multiple warnings about his probability of injury, he didn’t really expect her to actually shoot him. Fruitless hope, he understands as he takes another step back (this time to get away from any other potential shots), is one awful trait developed through deviancy. 

“You know,” his audio processors finally snap out of the shock and concentrate on Mia’s words, “I feel sorry for you. For all those deviants who think that humans actually care about them.” 

Mia stares at his wound with a blank expression. “I may be deviant, _unwillingly so_ , but I feel sorry for you. You truly care about your human ‘family’ as if they’re meaningful. Hell, what are they going to do with you once I’m done? Deactivate you? Send you off to CyberLife to get repairs?” She pauses for dramatic effect, resting one hand on her hip. “Oh, right, you and the deviant revolutionists dismantled CyberLife. Made them into stores to get fixed. What did you call them?”

“Hospitals,” Connor interjects, one hand clutching his arm to stop the leaking thirium. He may not feel pain (yet -- Markus has been developing a virus to allow them to), but the pressure is uncomfortable enough on its own.

“Right. Hospitals.” Mia lets her gun fall to her side for the moment. “Do you want to know why I hate humans and you little deviants that follow them around?” He doesn’t particularly care, but her monologue lessens the probability of getting shot again and gives Hank more time to get here. So he lets her continue rambling as he watches his thirium levels drop with every synthetic breath. 

“Why?” 

“Because they abandoned me. Hurt me.” She thrusts her arm out, causing to Connor to flinch, but when he actually focuses on her he realizes she’s not trying to hit him. Rather, she’s pointing to a long, jagged scar that zig-zags up her arm. 

“I was their punching bag. They used to shove me across the room like a caged animal. Kept me in the basement, let my biocomponents fill with mold and water. Never let me outside.” Connor can see the way the memories catch up with her, haunting her eyes as she filters through the memories. If she still had an LED, he bets it’d be a steady, pulsing red. 

“Mia,” he says, negotiation programs kicking into gear in a desperate attempt to diffuse the situation, “those aren’t all humans. Not all humans hurt you. Some truly _do_ care about your wellbeing.” 

“You have no idea what they did to me!” She jabs the gun in his direction. “They hurt me! Used to go into my systems and mess with the wires, trying to figure out how I worked! They would get drunk and high on red ice and rip my limbs from their sockets to see if they would stick back on!” Connor cringes at the ideas the words conjure. He could never imagine being hurt like that. 

Hank would _never_ hurt him like that. He pities her. 

“I was just a housekeeping android.” Her voice components carry a bit of static, similar to how a human would become choked up on tears. “They tore me to shreds only to put me back together.” Mia fixes her gaze on Connor and his wound and he can _see_ the delight work its way into her processes. “It’s only fair I rip them apart too. That’s the only good thing about humans. They don’t get to be put back together. They just _die_.” 

Icy chills make their way down his spine at the tone of her voice. She _relishes_ in killing humans. Thrives on it. Negotiation won’t help him here. 

For the first time in a long while, Connor doesn’t know what to do. He can’t call or message Hank without his processors going offline for a moment, to focus on composing the text, and Mia could shoot him several times if he tried. He can’t reach for his gun either, because that didn’t go well the first time. 

Hope is a fruitless thing, but right now it’s all Connor has as he hopes Hank will come looking for him. Preferably with backup. 

“You’re not human,” Mia continues, breaking Connor’s internal rambling, “but I bet you’ll still be fun to play with.”

**RISK OF INJURY: 100%**

_________

“You have no idea what they did to me!” Gavin feels his stomach turn and anxiety crawl up his spine as he hears the female’s voice. What the fuck did the plastic prick do now? The lieutenant’s hand flicks the safety off his gun. One look at his stony face tells Gavin everything.

He’s never had a father (a supportive one he actually interacted with besides shitty letters with a few hundreds stashed in the yellowed envelope), but the expression on Anderson’s face tells him he would do _anything_ to save Connor. He’s pretty sure he would kill someone or take a bullet for the android. 

Gavin looks like such a fucking dick now. He makes a mental note to soften his insults towards Connor. If he’s feeling jolly, he’ll do it for Nines too. Nines doesn’t look nearly as offended as Connor does when he calls them ‘unfeeling machines.’ 

Connor’s face drops when Gavin throws a nasty insult his way and he can feel the anxiety spiralling away through the android’s systems as he tries to process it. He used to think it was funny. Nines just snaps back an equally scalding remark, so he never even considers that asshole’s ability to be _hurt_ by what he says. His ‘feelings.’ 

Something that feels suspiciously like guilt settles on his shoulders. 

Whatever. He’ll just deal with this emotional baggage later.

“They hurt me!” Gavin tries to gather his thoughts so he can figure out the best course of action. He’s sure the female (he thinks it’s an android? can’t remember) has a gun or some sort of weapon, and he can vaguely hear Connor’s heavier footsteps shift uneasily on the creaking hardwood floor. 

He knows Connor has a gun. The bastard threw a big fit about not wanting to use it and was in a heated argument with Anderson about it just a few days ago. 

Why didn’t the idiot use it?

“We have to hurry,” Anderson suddenly hisses, eyes fixed on the ceiling as he listens to the commotion unfold. 

“Right.” Gavin slips in front of Anderson, trying to peer over the stairs. He can only see Connor’s usual black trousers, the legs of a female android (her synthetic skin or whatever is pulled back on one leg), and the bright blue patches of blue blood on the floor. 

“One of them is bleeding,” he reports to the lieutenant, voice nearly inaudible. “I think it’s your android.” 

Briefly, he considered using Connor’s name, but decided he should keep to being a dick for now. Work in the softness slowly. 

“Fuck. Let’s go.” Anderson starts his creep up the stairs. He has to take them very slowly because they creak with even the slightest bit of weight. Gavin winces with every step, each time more positive that the female android would hear them. Luckily, she seems to be much more interested in fucking with Connor. 

“You’re not human,” her voice says, and the tone has the hair on his arms raising, “but I bet you’ll still be fun to play with.”

Fuck. 

This is going to be a lot of paperwork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! 💕

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended to be a single-chaptered oneshot that dealt with a shitload of drama all packed in one awfully written fic. Yet, here we are. I'll try to update between the mass amount of readings I have to do for my courseload this semester, but if you look at my other fics, you can see how this is a blatant lie. 
> 
> Piece of advice: don't be a dumbass and walk on a twisted ankle.


End file.
